


Sins of a Past

by Unwritten98



Category: game of thrones
Genre: F/M, How Do I Tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-01-23 19:51:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21325729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unwritten98/pseuds/Unwritten98
Summary: Lyanna truly loved Robert and he truly loved her. Unfortunately she loved Rhaegar more. A tale of how history is doomed to repeat itself as when everyone looks at Arya, all they can see is her aunt. However Arya refuses to allow the sins of her ancestors past to determine her future.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Aegon VI Targaryen, Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Robert Baratheon/Lyanna Stark
Comments: 15
Kudos: 52





	1. Return to Winterfell

**Ned**

It's been too long since he's been home, yet Winterfell stands as it has stood for hundreds of years. Escorted by the Knights of the Vale, Eddard Stark has finally returned home. After ten long years, he will be able to see his family again. He tugs at his cloak, doing his best to evade the chill of a receding winter. Spring is almost here.

"How are you feeling?" Robert reins his horse beside his.

"Nervous. I haven't seen my family in ten years."

Robert nods, his eyes showing a rare moment of stern compassion. Unlike his younger brother, Stannis, Robert has always been a smiling and laughing boy who enjoys life. Lord Aryn used to say that Robert kept Ned from turning too stern.

"How are you feeling? You're about to meet your betrothed."

Robert grins, "Surely not before we stop by the brothel in Winter Town?"  
  
Ned fights back a smile as they spur their horses on further. There are shouts and yells as they canter in through the gates, entering the courtyard of his home. Robert is quick to dismount, handing the reigns over to the servants. Ned, however, remains on his horse a little while longer as he gazes upon the castle. Winterfell truly has not changed. The walls seem only a little smaller now that he's no longer so small. Upon the steps of the castle, his family and household stand, waiting to greet them. His mother is smiling and greets Robert warmly as he approaches and meets Ned's family. Ned dismounts and joins Robert.

"Ned! Look at how you've grown. My little boy has grown so much!" The lady Lyarra exclaims, clutching her son to her. When she lets go of him, tears are streaming down her face. Before Ned can find the words to express how much he'd missed her, his father clasps his shoulder and turns Ned to look at him. "Welcome home son."

"Thank you, father."

"Why so solemn, brother?" Brandon laughs as Eddard turns to him.

"It's probably that he has to see your ugly face again," A youth standing beside Brandon, jests. Ned realizes that this must be Benjen. The last time he saw him, Benjen had only been three years old. Ned smiles, the familiar brotherly bond settling in, faster than he had expected it to. As his mother arranges for food for the escorting Knights, Ned notes the absence of his only sister.

"Where’s Lyanna?"

"Good question." Robert rumbles.

"Off doing the same thing I'd like to be doing," Brandon sighs. Robert raises a questioning eyebrow, his mind jumping straight to fucking.

"Riding." Eddard guesses. As if to confirm his response, they suddenly hear the thundering of hooves upon the hard ground floor. Ned tries his best to hide his amusement as he watches his sister gallop into the courtyard. Men go flying as they try to jump out of her horses' way. Her head is thrown back as she laughs, an easy and carefree laugh, the smile on her face growing only brighter.

"Mothers not going to like that," Benjen murmurs, looking at his beloved sister.

"Has Lyanna ever really cared about what, Mother thinks?" Brandon asks. Lyanna dismounts from her steed with ease, especially as she's only wearing a pair of breeches and a tunic. Handing the reins over to a stable boy, she strides over to her brothers and her betrothed.

"Are you three quite finished? Gossiping like silly little maidens?"

"If we're the maidens, what does that make you?" Brandon asks, an easy smile playing at his lips. Lyanna bites back a bark, "A knight, of course. I've come to save you from the boredom of your imaginations." The boys laugh whilst Lyanna embraces Ned. "It's been too long."

"Aye. It has." Robert clears his throat and Ned steps back to do the formal introductions, "Lyanna this is my good friend Robert Baratheon, Lord of Storms End."

"I know who he is," Lyanna responds, looking the youth over with her sterling grey eyes. Ned sees his friend visibly gulp as the She-wolf of the North assesses him.

"Enough of this!" Benjen exclaims, "Let's eat."

**Lyanna**

Mother keeps shooting her, disapproving looks from across the table. She hadn't had the time to get changed out of her riding clothes. Benjen had practically dragged her to the dining hall, besides, she wanted to talk to Ned rather than wasting time on such trivial things such as changing garments. Ned has changed so much. He's become a man and Lyanna doesn't know who he is anymore. They exchanged letters but not everything can be conveyed on parchment. She'd only been five when he left, but she remembers the brother that used to care for her and teach her how to run and climb.

Despite the revelry, the jokes and all the people in the room, she can feel a pair of blue eyes trained on her. Today was the first day she had met her betrothed. He is handsome, tall with broad shoulders and a strong chest. She can almost see the muscles beneath his doublet. He's tall, towering over her lithe frame. From beneath her lashes, she peeks up at Robert Baratheon. Yes, he is very handsome, and she is one of the lucky ones. She could have been betrothed to a Frey. Robert gives her a roguish grin, his smile making him only more handsome. This handsome man is betrothed to her, but he wants to tie her down. Take her to Storms End to be his pretty little wife and have his black-haired and blue-eyed children. She's not ready for that. She's the she-wolf of the North. When she doesn't return the smile, his expression falls. He looks like he's about to say something but before he's able to, she excuses herself from the table. Lord Stark commands one of his men to escort her back to her chamber.

"Would you mind if I helped escort the Lady Lyanna to her chambers?" Robert Baratheon asks her Lord father. Rickard Stark looks less than pleased at the notion but it's Lady Lyarra that intervenes, "Of course Lord Baratheon."

As they leave the hall, Robert offers her his arm. She's tempted to chew it off but instead, she graciously accepts it as her father's man walks several feet behind them.

"Did you enjoy the feast, my lord?" Lyanna asks, trying to remember the courtesies that her mother had drilled into her.

"It was a splendid feast. Soured - however - by a certain lady's reluctance to speak with me." It's quite the effort to not roll her eyes.

"I beg your pardon, my lord. I'm tired of riding and aren't in the right state of mind."

Lord Baratheon lets out a low chortle, "I was referring to the serving wench." Before she can stop it, a laugh springs forth from her lips.

"Ah, so she does smile away from her horse."

"Do you ride?"

"Aye, I enjoy hunting." This answer pleases Lyanna. If her father would allow it, she too would like to hunt but her father would never allow for her to have a sword or a bow. She expresses so.   
"We have great game at Storms End. If it were to please my lady, you'd be able to hunt all that you like if it's by my side.   
Lyanna smiles, she had not considered that he would let her be her wild self. 

They reach her chamber door.

"Thank you, my lord, for escorting me to my room."

Robert bows, taking her hand and planting a chaste kiss upon the back of it.   
"It was my pleasure," He murmurs the words against her hand.   
She feels her cheeks grow warm as his blue eyes watch her silver ones with an intensity that she has never known. The man chosen to chaperone the two of them lets out a little cough, taking them out of their reverie. Robert straightens, “Goodnight Lady Lyanna."

"Goodnight Lord Robert."

In the safety of her bedroom, leaning against the door, Lyanna tries to catch her breath as her heartbeats against her rib cage. Perhaps she had been wrong about this arrangement and he will not try to tame her. Lyanna smiles at the thought, approaching her washing basin and splashing some ice-cold water onto her neck and face.

**Robert**

He can’t stop thinking about Lyanna, her flushed cheeks, and sparkling eyes. She wanted him, he could tell. He wants her. Dammit, he should just marry her tomorrow so that he can take her to Storms End where he'll be able to fuck her until they both can't move. He'll make sure that she never has to miss Winterfell, they'll come to visit Ned at least once a year so that she'll be happy. He'll do anything for her.

"Where's the privy, I need to take a piss," He grunts.

He wants to go back and make love to his future wife but he doubts Lord Rickards Bannerman would be very pleased to hear that. He tells him where to go and Robert dismisses him, telling him he can find his own bloody way to his rooms. When the man is gone, Robert turns back and heads towards Lyanna's rooms. She may be asleep. Will he wake her or should he leave her? If he does wake her, how will he do it? He'd like to do it by burying his face between those soft creamy thighs. His cock twitches at that idea. Robert picks up his pace, almost running to her. She's his betrothed, what does it matter if she's not a virgin on her wedding day. He won't bloody care. Not when he was the one to take her Maidenhead.

He reaches her door and hesitates. She isn’t some common servant from the vale or some pretty girl who he just has to smile at to earn a flurry of giggles. This is Lyanna Stark, Ned’s sister and he would kill her for touching him. That alone should stop him. Ned had told him about his sister, about her wild ways and the way she’d play in the sun as a child. Robert convinces himself that he only wants to talk and get to know her. With that resolve, he knocks on her door. 

A girly squeal and a, "Just a minute."

"Lyanna," Robert croaks, unable to find his voice. The shuffling behind the door stops and her head appears in the crack of the doorway.

"Robert."

The way his name falls from her lips sounds like a prayer offered to the seven. He is her warrior and she is his maiden. Her face is flushed and her hair tumbles down her back in loose waves. Gods, this woman could bring a man to his knees with just one look. She steps aside, allowing him to enter. Robert looks around her tidy room as she closes the door and turns to him.

“How can I help you, Lord Robert? Have you gotten lost?” A coy smile is at her lips and seven hells he wants to take her and kiss her. Getting to know her, be damned. Instead, he thinks of Ned. This is his castle and his sister, and he will not define her. Not like this.  
  
“Not at all, my lady. I wanted to ask you if you would come riding with me tomorrow?” He hadn’t planned on asking that but watching her eyes light up when he mentioned riding, made his blunder worth it.

“I would like that, my lord.” 

Robert grins, he can’t believe the fire of joy that she had lit in his belly with those few words and a beguiling smile. Robert thanks the gods, old and new that she was to be his. He cannot leave her chamber without having a small taste and it’s with that thought in mind that he foolishly asks, “May I kiss you goodnight?”

Lyanna does not blush like he thought she might. Instead, she looks over his shoulder to make sure the door is closed before taking a step towards him, “Yes my lord.”

Robert places his hands on her waist as hers come up to rest on his chest and kisses those soft and irresistible lips of hers. She's so small that Robert must bend over for the kiss. Lyanna. His Lyanna. Her hands grasp his face and she presses her small body against his larger one. This woman has him entirely. Robert's hands squeeze her waist, running down to her hips and back up to her waist.  
  
"Robert."

She’s the one to pull back and it nearly kills him to not reach for her and demand more kisses. Instead, she rests her head on his chest and he holds her to him, never wanting to let go of her. She is warm and sweet and feels so breakable in his arms. He needs to protect her, can never let her go.   
  
“You need to go,” Lyanna reminds him, pulling away, “I don’t want you here.”   
She steps away, wrapping her arms around herself and refuses to look at him. Instead, she walks past him to open her chamber door.   
  
Robert, still reeling from her words, stumbles out of the room, feeling his heart plummet into his stomach. She closes the door behind him and it’s all that he can take to not tear the door off of its hinges and remind her that she is his and he is hers.

The she-wolf will be the death of him.

**Lyanna**

Whilst breaking her fast, Lyanna tries to ignore Robert's hot stare. He hasn't stopped looking at her since she entered the hall. She tossed and turned all of last night, thinking about him and what he did to her, the way he made her feel. She hated it, the power he held and she loved it. She loved the feel of his large hands on her soft skin. Hated that she barely knew him and that he had the power to fuck all he wanted whilst she was forced to keep her legs closed until the day she married. She didn’t want to marry this man. She didn’t want to love him. She could perhaps like him if she tried but she could never love him.   
  
"I thought we might go for a ride today," Brandon suggests, mouth full of bacon. Aiming the suggestion at Eddard, whilst looking between Robert and him.   
  
"You have lessons," Lord Rickard reminds him, his grey eyes filled with light mirth, happy to see all his children back home.   
Brandon is to be lord of Winterfell one day and father has been making sure that he will be ready for when the time comes.  
  
"Father, Ned only just got back. Surely you can spare one day so that I may spend time with my little brother."  
Ned looks like he's about to protest being called little, however, their father is quick to respond, "Winter is coming. You must be ready."

  
Lady Lyarra quietly chortles, looking adoringly at her husband, "Winter has just left. Give them a day Rickard."  
Their father hardly ever refuses their mother anything.   
"One day."  
  
They're all quick to change into their riding gear and Hodor has the horses ready for them when they get to the courtyard.   
"Thank you Hodor," Lyanna smiles, placing a kiss on his cheek. Lord Baratheon looks furious until he realizes that the stable boy is a simpleton.   
They mount their horses and Brandon leads the way, exclaiming about a beautiful lake that Ned and Robert need to see. Lyanna knows about the lake. She'd swam in it many times. What Brandon doesn't know about is the private little alcove just behind the rocks and through the underwater archway.   
She watches Lord Baratheon as they ride and notices how comfortable he is in a saddle, maneuvering the horse around rocks and ditches. Ned looks as if though everything is coming back to him and he's soon beside Brandon, laughing about who knows what. Benjen falls back to talk to Lord Baratheon. Bored, Lyanna spurs her horse into a canter, soon overtaking Brandon with ease.   
  
"Lyanna be careful!" Ned calls out. She only laughs over her shoulder, urging her horse to go faster. She loves this. The wind tussling her hair and biting at her cheeks as the sun warms her back. This is what she lives for. She arrives at the lake before any of the others and dismounts with ease. Tying off her horse, she begins stripping to her undergarments. She's already waist-deep into the lake when her brothers and Robert arrive.   
  
"Lyanna! Put your bloody clothes back on!" Benjen yells.   
She shoots him a scathing look, "By the Old Gods why should I?"   
They don't normally care about her swimming in her underthing’s. That's when she realizes that he's nervous about her being almost naked in front of Robert. She gestures to him with her chin, "He doesn't mind. He's going to bed me on our wedding night anyway. Wedded and Bedded.”  
Benjen and Brandon look shocked but Ned has a slight smile on his face. She can't read Robert however, he is breathing hard but looking at Ned, grinning from ear to ear, murmuring something to Ned that she can't hear.   
  
Ned is the first to dismount and take off his shirt, soon followed by the others. Lyanna turns away from them, her arms cutting through the water as she floats along the top. Her brothers are soon near enough to splash her but she is quick to getaway. They laugh as they wrestle, Ned on Roberts shoulders and Benjen on Brandon's. Lyanna laughs as Benjen topples from Brandon's shoulders. The boys cry out in victory and she takes the moment to swim further away and get behind the rocks. Taking a deep breath, Lyanna dives into the water and towards the little arch, swimming underneath and through, before swimming upwards and breaking through the water. Looking up at the blue sky above, she smiles to herself and does several laps around the alcove.   
  
"Is this where you come to be alone?" A deep voice asks behind her. Lyanna doesn't bother turning around to know that it's Robert.   
"My brothers won't be happy if they think we're alone together."  
She faces the rocks, not wanting to look at him. She'd watched him take off his shirt and the image still scorches her mind. The lines and ripples along his stomach, proving how strong he is. She can feel him swimming closer to her.   
  
"I don't care."  
"They'll kill you."  
"No, they won't."  
"Ned might be your best friend but he'll draw the line at you touching his sister."  
He's behind her now, his big hands right on her hips.   
"I didn't want to draw the line last night."  
She turns around to yell at him, only to see his eyes burning with desire. It makes her feel hot all over but disturbs her a little.   
  
“Robert, I need you to go.” She places a hand on his pec and gently pushes him back but he doesn’t let go.   
“Lyanna, I need you,” He pulls her in closer and begins to lower his lips to hers.   
  
The slap to his face is quick and swift. He lets go of her and she swims a couple of feet away.   
"I am not some breeding mare," Lyanna seethes, furious with him. Who does he think he is, following her around so that he can get her hot and bothered then walk away?  
Robert looks just as furious if not more. Ours is the fury indeed.   
"Am I not allowed to desire my betrothed," Robert shouts and she's relieved that the walls of the alcove rise so high so that she can be reassured that her brothers won't hear them.   
"You don’t even know me," Lyanna huffs, growing more furious.   
"I want to know you,” Robert calms, his rage fading as he reaches out to her but she swims out of reach. Lyanna doesn’t know what to say or what to do. She desires this man, though she knows that it is not a woman’s place to desire. She wants him but she doesn’t want to marry him. She knows the consequences of falling into his arms, she’d have no way of getting out of this betrothal then.

  
"I don't trust myself with you," Lyanna confesses.   
Robert looks confused, searching her face, trying to understand the puzzle that is his betrothed, “Why not?”   
She doesn’t know how to say it, she can’t express the turmoil that this man makes her feel. She doesn’t know how to explain her position as a woman. She wants Robert to fuck her but she doesn’t want him to marry her.   
“I am not going to be a good wife,” she whispers, looking down at the waters she’s treading on.  
Robert shakes his head, once more reaching for her, “Lyanna no, you’ll make a wonderful wife.”   
  
She lets him grab her this time and he clutches her to him, tilting her face up towards him.  
“No Robert, no, I don’t want to be a wife. I don’t want to go to Storm’s End and be your lady.”   
This time it’s Robert that lets her go, as he looks at her in shock. Surely she feels what he does.   
“Give it time.” He swims away from her a little, giving her some space.   
  
She stops and looks at him curiously, "What will time do?"  
For the first time since she got off her horse yesterday, he looks at her with something that's not desire.   
"I can make you happy."  
She smiles a small sad smile, "We best be getting back."  
Robert cuts her off, stopping her from diving back out of the alcove.   
“Stay awhile, I won’t touch you, I’d just like to get to know you a little more.”   
  
They stay there a little while longer, talking and swimming circles around each other. She tells him about her love of horses and even admits that deep in the Godswood where no one goes, she has a patch of winter roses growing. She cared for them since she planted them when Ned left. Robert asks her to show him and she promises to do so. They discuss the gossip of the houses and the latest tales of the brave knights. Lyanna notices the great appreciation Robert has for Ser Arthur Dayne as he expresses his interest to be a great warrior. As it gets cooler, they swim back under the archway and join her brothers. Ned gives them a stern look but Lyanna swims over and plants a kiss on his cheek, warming him and causing him to smile.   
  
They eat the food that the kitchen had prepared for them and as Ned and Brandon play a game of cyvasse, Benjen watches intently. Robert takes her hand and drags her a little further away but makes sure that Ned can still see them.   
"You told me that you like to hunt."  
Lyanna nods, interested to see where this goes.  
"What about swordplay?"  
"I'm not allowed."  
He grabs two long sticks and throws one to Lyanna, "How about I teach you?"  
She grins and stands in the same way she has seen Benjen and Brandon stand. Robert shakes his head, chuckling softly and gently moves and adjusts her so that she's standing properly.   
  
"I'm going to teach you to defend yourself."  
She grins like a wolf and slowly Robert begins to teach her some steps. She feels her brothers watching but she doesn't care. 

  
Her lessons with Robert become a daily thing. Brandon's lessons keep him in Winterfell but once Ned and Benjen are free, they ride down to the lake where Robert teaches her how to fight with a sword, shoot with a bow and throw a spear. One day, the four of them even go on a little hunt and Lyanna proudly catches herself a rabbit and skins it herself. That night they sleep under the sky and eat their game. No one protested when Lyanna slept tucked in at Robert's side. 


	2. Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya is reunited with her family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've changed the order of major events. I've always believed that the Night King was the major threat to be dealt with, not Cersei so in my timeline, Daenerys conquers Kings Landing first. Still, not 100% how I'm going to work the night king in along with my original storyline, might nix the whole thing. 
> 
> Anyhow, this story takes 10 years after the beheading of Ned Stark. Now to make some things clear, I'm following the books more than the show, so those of you who haven't read the books, some points to clarify: 
> 
> Sansa: Never married Bolton. Jeyne (Sansa's friend from the North who traveled South with them and was captured by the   
Lannister's) is sent to Ramsey by Tyrion, pretending to be Arya. All the torture that was inflicted on Sansa in the   
show, actually happened to Jeyne and Theon was encouraged by Roose to lie and confirm that Jane is Arya.   
Arya: Pretty much the same   
Jon: Doesn't bend the knee like a little bitch but compromises and agrees to take Kings Landing before going after the   
Night King because there is a BIG ASS WALL that is keeping him at bay. Dany spared some men to cart obsidian to   
Winterfell so the process of making weapons can begin.   
Gendry: Was never taken by the red woman.   
Rickon: Is alive and didn't die like a little bitch who never heard of a zig zag

** **

**Lord Brandon Stark**

Bran, despite being bundled in all his furs and cloaks can still feel the bite of winter, especially this late in the night. Despite the best efforts of the builders, they weren't Bran the Builder and didn’t know how to run the hot springs through the walls. The fireplaces, however, are bigger as are the hearths. Bran sits at his desk, looking out the window that faced the Gods Wood. Everything is covered in a thick blanket of snow, everything but the Weirwood tree, whose red leaves still slowly descend to the ground, littering it with droplets of red. Not at all unlike the droplets falling from the Waif’s face after Arya had carved it from her skull. He has seen all her deeds and all the people she had killed. Rickon has trouble remembering what she looks like or who she is, what she has become, and Bran hasn’t felt the need to explain. He will meet her soon enough. 

Their broken family may not need to be so broken after all. 

His head falling back against his chair, Bran’s eyes roll to the back of his head as he focuses on a nearby raven.   
  
The air bites at him as he fights through the harsher gales, dipping and diving to avoid the harsher winds. The land beneath him is laid out like a map with too many details and he dives to get closer to Winterfell, soaring over the Weirwood tree and past the Godswood. A girl approaches, riding in on a horse, covered in furs to shield her from the cold. A direwolf at her side.

The direwolf glances up at the sky and lets out a howl to greet the night. The horse is startled but the girls reins it in, a shout going out to the wolf, telling it to behave itself.

"My lord, will you be needing more wood for the fire?"

Brans eyes flutter open to find a serving girl before him. 

"No but make sure to start a fire in Arya’s room and make up the bed."

The serving girl gives him a hesitant look before bowing her head, "Yes m’lord."

The girl leaves and Bran is left to maneuver his way out of the room on his own, the way he prefers it. The months he spent getting carried around by others, have made him reliant upon his own independence. A maester had suggested that he have built a chair with wheels so that he may move around the castle. When they took back Winterfell, he took the room closest to the main hall and asked that the furniture be arranged so that there's enough space for him to move about. Bran wheels himself out of the room and into the main hall where he finds Sansa, bent over some parchments and talking to the maester.

She looks up at the sound of wood spinning along stone and smiles as Bran approaches the high table. She dismisses the maester and begins arranging the papers before her, surely intending to show him her progress. Sansa thinks that it’s important to Bran that he be involved in the castle affairs and be told about the decisions she made regarding grain and refugees for the winter. Bran’s mind is preoccupied with the army making way for them North of the wall, rather than the concerns of his ego, as his sister does a better job of running the castle than he ever could.

"Bran, I was just about to find you to show you the amount of wheat we have in storage, I’m concerned that it won’t be enough…”  
  
Bran watches as his sister points to numbers and offers up multiple solutions, knowing full well that she’d already decided on the best course of action and is waiting to suggest it to him.   
  
“Do whatever you think is right,” Bran says, his response to all his sister’s queries. This seems to please Sansa as she leans back in her chair, with her hands folded in her lap.   
  
“What can I help you with Bran?”   
  
“Arya is back.”  
  
At that, Sansa immediately rises to her feet and calls for servants to find Rickon and for another to get her a cloak and some gloves. Bran wheels himself away as Sansa prepares the castle for the arrival of their sister.

It’s cold outside and despite all the furs, the cold encases him and traps him in its kiss. Bran and Rickon watch as the escort party fills the courtyard. Sansa joins, having just finished arranging the final details of a quick small feast to welcome Arya. Bran is lord of Winterfell only in title. As the Three Eyed Raven, he has little patience for such trivial things. Sansa rules the North. 

Bran thinks of when Rickon had returned to Winterfell, to find Sansa Stark as Lady of Winterfell.

"_Rickon," His name fell from her lips like a secret that she refused to utter. Her blue eyes took in Rickon, who was no longer the child that she knew. He watched as Rickon looked upon the stranger that he did not know, the sister that he barely remembered that he had. He had been stuck in place, not sure if formal courtesies apply or if he should embrace her. Sansa took it upon herself to embrace the boy, a single tear freezing upon her cheek. _  
  
Arya rides into the courtyard, wrapped up in cloaks that cover her armour. Torchlight falls upon the face and Bran finds himself looking into a pair of familiar eyes. She gracefully dismounts from her horse, handing it off to a stable hand, brushing the horse’s neck as she commands Tom to remove the saddle bags and saddle, but she will return to brush down the horse herself. Turning to her family she grins, approaching Bran first, falling forward to embrace him, holding him tight.   
“I swear I’m never going south again,” she promises, leaning back to look at Bran. 

Bran gives her a weary smile, trying to not look at Sansa from the corner of her eye. He knows that his sister is only biding her time, before she demands from the dragon queen that the North be declared an independent kingdom. Arya will demand to be on Sansa’s Queen’s Guard and may find herself riding South again.  
He doesn’t say any of this, he has been practicing at being Bran again, at ignoring millennia of history and knowledge so that he can provide a small amount of normalcy for his family.   
Instead he responds, “It’s good to have you back.”   
Smiling still, Arya kisses him on the check before moving onto her sister.   
  
"Ruling the North suits, you," Arya concedes, letting go of Sansa.   
Sansa gives Arya a hard smile in return, “I suspect I’m a lot better at it than you would have been.” 

Smiling, Arya turns to Rickon, who adjusts his weight from one foot to the other, before bowing his head in greeting. Arya makes a noise that sounds between a scoff and a laugh, before embracing her little brother, “I’m glad you’re not dead.” 

No more words are exchanged, and they make their way inside. Just as Rickon wheels Bran back inside, he looks towards the forge and wonders if he should tell Arya tonight. However, a selfish part of him wants to keep his sister to himself, just for one night.

**Arya**

It's changed. The layout is the same, but the bricks are different as is the furniture. This isn't the Winterfell in which Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catlyn Stark, ruled over. This isn't the castle she'd grown up in. The stones in the steps aren't the ones she'd tripped over and grazed her knees till they bled because she'd been careless whilst chasing Jon. No, her home was re-built by the Bolton’s. Bolton men laid these bricks and Bolton’s made this castle her home. It looks like Winterfell but there are too many fresh graves in the crypts. It took them too long to finally be able to bury their family members. 

Suddenly the crowds screaming for blood, jostling her around and her father’s head is rolling in the dirt. 

Arya fights back the feeling of sick and instead, accepts the spiced, warmed mead that Rickon has handed her. She's not sure what this room is but they're in front of a fireplace and it's warm. Sansa sits beside her, holding her goblet of wine with little interest in drinking any of it. Rickon takes a seat across from them, next to Bran. She can feel Bran examining her, watching her every move. It's unsettling. 

They all want to ask. Are the rumours true? Did Jaime kill Cersei? Is Jon to become king? Is the realm going to starve? Rickon is the only one who has not spoken to Arya since she left Winterfell with their father. The entire North knows the story of the brave wolf of the North. Most people wouldn't be able to see what Arya sees, but just in the way he sits, it's clear what he's capable of. Stark men are rarely the bulky type. Rickon had grown tall, grown a beard like Rob’s and developed muscles bigger then both Jon’s and Rob’s. 

Her little baby brother had killed, he'd joined the Brotherhood and helped defend the innocent. Or so the brotherhood claims. He'd been only twelve when he'd done it. She wants to ask about the Brotherhood, about who he had fought alongside, but thinks better of it. They all have questions and instead they all sit there, not sure what to say. 

"What would mother say if she was to see us now?" Arya asks, watching the flames lick away at the log within the fireplace.   
“I imagine she’d remark on your choice of attire,” Sansa responds gesturing with the goblet towards Arya, a smirk on her lips.   
The two sisters share a small laugh and Bran looks at them with a smile.   
Rickon feels like he’s peering in on a world in which he doesn’t belong to. He doesn’t remember their mother; not like they do. He remembers a face and some of the love, but the actual memories escape him.

"Remember when we were sure mother was going to kill us because we'd eaten all the tarts that had been prepared for some afternoon tea that she was having with the bannermen’s wives?" Sansa laughs finally taking a sip from her goblet, leaning back into the chair and grinning from ear to ear.

"Jon ate most of them,” Arya exclaims, throwing her hands up in surrender whilst glaring at her sister. The glare somewhat made less threatening by her smile. 

Rickon fiddles with mug in his hand, peering down at the suds floating in his ale. He wishes he could say something clever, something to make them all smile and laugh. Something to make himself feel like a Stark.   
"That's Prince Jon," Rickon reminds her with a chortle, looking around proudly, waiting for everyone else to join in.

“Prince Aegon Targaryen, actually,” Bran solemnly corrects, looking past them.

The laughter stops and Bran trains his gaze on Arya again. She's been the most recent one to see their cousin.

"How is he?" He asks in a quiet voice, barely heard over the happy crackling of the fire. 

"He’s in love with the queen but has no wish to be King of the seven kingdoms," Arya mutters, her head turned to look away from her family, to anything else.   
“He doesn’t feel like he belongs here, or there, he doesn’t feel like he belongs anywhere.”  
  
Rickon looks down at the floor beneath his feet, thinking to himself that he and his cousin might share something in common. Looking up at Arya, he catches the dull look in her eyes and suspects, that maybe, Arya feels the same way.

**Gendry**

Their arrival had woken him, but he hadn't dared go out into the courtyard to face her. He thought that it would be best to let the family reunite without him, allowing Arya to celebrate the return of her youngest brother. He watched from the shadows as she greeted her family, noticing the way she moved, from heel to the pads of her feet, silently like a cat. He'd also noticed how much she's changed over these long ten years. Gendry can hardly believe that it's been that long since the Kings death. His Father’s death. Lord Brandon Stark had only looked at him and he knew that he was the bastard of Robert Baratheon.

Every night, he told himself that he'd failed her when he hadn't caught her. When she slipped past his fingers, his heart had lodged in his throat. He'd run out into the rain and even when the sun had risen, he was still looking, his voice hoarse from screaming out her name. He'd been sure that the Hound had killed her. Lord Beric allowed them to stay awhile longer to look for her. Gendry had then made it his mission to find her but after several weeks, they learnt that Arya Stark was dead. Killed along with her brother and mother at the Twins. Gendry had taken his grief out on any Frey or Lannister soldiers the Brotherhood came across, until Lady Stoneheart took charge. Gendry left after that.

One day he was passing through Winter Town and learned that Eddard’s Stark bastard had taken back Winterfell and had been named King in the North. Looking at the unfamiliar castle, Gendry decided to go see the lord and to tell him about a girl he knew. 

Lord Bran welcomed him into his home as soon as Gendry promised to tell him everything about his journey with Arya. Somehow at the end of that night, he'd found himself to be the new blacksmith of Winterfell. it was that night that he’d learnt that Arya Stark had been home, that she was alive and had gone South to fight alongside the King in the North. He refused to believe it until he set his eyes on her. Tonight, when he looked upon the woman she'd become, Gendry forgot that the war had even happened. He remembered a time when it was just her, him and Hot Pie. 

He turns in his bed and turns again, not able to find sleep. He’s anxious to go see her, to truly confirm that she’s alive and alright. He wants to hold her, to keep her close and never let go. He should never have let her go. He doesn't jump when he hears the crunch of footsteps on snow, in the courtyard.   
However, his curiosity is piqued. Who is out there so late in the night? He throws on an old cloak that had belonged to one of the Bolton's and steps outside.   
  
He nearly stops dead when he sees Arya looking up at the night sky, the moon illuminating her face and making her pale skin glow. She looks completely different and yet, she could be the same girl he met in Kings Landing. She’s taller but he could still tower over her and see the top of her head. When she was younger, she was scared, defiantly so but scared none the less. Always facing her fear with a headstrong and reckless bravery. Now stood a woman who had faced a world of terrors, fought them one by one and survived them all.

Looking away from the sky she turns to him. Her little pink mouth pops open and her eyes go wide. Lord Stark mustn't have told her that he was is the castle. Quickly surprise turns to anger and Gendry presumes that she will storm up to him and try her best to shove him to the ground. Only he’s wrong. Arya’s face turns expressionless and instead, she slowly approaches him, hands clasped behind her back. 

"What’s a Southern armorers apprentice doing this far North?" She asks with a slight tilt of her head, appraising him, taking in his build and attire. Gendry remembers the cloak and his fingers twitch as he fights the urge to cover the sigil.

When he’d found out that she was on her way home, Gendry had rehearsed what he was going to say, how he’d tell that he regretted abandoning her for the brotherhood, that a day didn’t go by where he didn’t think of her. Instead, he simply has to have the upper hand, “Making armour for Northerners.”   
  
Arya stands before him, and as he suspected, he towers over her. She cocks an eyebrow at him, before allowing her gaze to drift towards the forge.   
“You’re planning on fighting the dead alongside us?”   
She looks back at him, straight into his eyes and it feels like she has his balls in a vice like grip.   
  
“Aye, I plan to do what I can. His grace has me working all day, making weapons from dragon glass. Says it’s the only way to defeat them.” The words stumble out of his mouth faster than he can process them. He doesn’t want to be talking about an army of the dead or his work. He wants to know where she’s been all this time and if she’d thought of him as often as he thought of her.   
  
Instead she nods like this is all information that she already knows, “Now that Cersei is defeated, Jon wants to come back North with the dragon queen and her three dragons. He doesn’t think the wall can hold for much longer.” She reaches for the dagger at her side, not to unsheathe it, but to simply hold the pommel as if though to seek reassurance.   
  
“Did you see them? The dragons I mean.” Gendry has heard of them; how big they are but no one in the North has really seen them. People are beginning to believe that they are just a myth.

Arya nods, looking past him towards the forge, “Have you got ale in there?” She jerks her chin towards it.   
  
Gendry looks over his shoulder and then back at her, “Aye, would you like some?”   
  
Arya already began walking towards the forge, “Better than freezing our balls off out here,” she yells over her shoulder.   
Gendry can't help smiling. She's alive and she's still the little spitfire that she'd always been, if not a little more reserved.

He follows her into the forge. It's warm in here, it always is stifling hot but this winter it has kept him from becoming an icicle. They take off their furs and Arya wonders around the forge whilst Gendry pours them two tankards of ale from the barrel in his room. It was gifted to him by Lady Sansa in thanks of his hard work and for looking after Arya all those years ago.

When he returns, she is sitting upon his work bench, still looking around the forge before turning to Gendry and accepting the tankard of ale that was being offered to her. He takes a long drag from his, perhaps hoping to draw on some courage so that he can finally say what he has been meaning to say.   
  
“Arya-“ He’s cut off by a sharp look.   
  
“Don’t say my name like that.” She snaps, setting down the tankard and hoping down from the bench.   
  
Gendry watches astonished, as Arya picks up the blades that him and his men had been carefully crafting, tossing it from hand to hand and testing the weight of it.   
  
“Say your name like what?” Gendry asks, fighingt back the temptation to snatch the blade out of her hand before she hurts herself. Or worse, decides to imbed the blade into his neck.

“Like you care,” Arya snarls, slamming down the blade she’d been holding. She looks angry with herself, like she’d let something get past her carefully crafted mask.

Gendry can't stop the growl that escapes his throat. She doesn't expect him to care. Gods grant him patience with this woman. He strides around the work bench and grips her by the forearms, she tenses, waiting.   
  
Suddenly Gendry is wet, winded and on the floor with Arya’s knee pressed to his sternum and her face hovering over his. He’d barely seen her move and still can’t quite grasp how she’d thrown him down to the ground. He’s laying in ale and his tankard has rolled away. He finally manages to take in some air, swallowing it in fat gulps like a fish looking for water. 

"Why aren't you with the stupid Brotherhood Without Banners?" She snarls over him and it’s now that Gendry realises that she’s holding the dagger she’d previously been thumbing, to his throat.

Gendry looks at her earnestly trying to give her the most honest answer he can, somewhat afraid that if the answer doesn’t please her, she will slit his throat, "I wanted to make Winterfell my home."

Arya punches him. She'd punched him all the time when they were younger. The difference now is that it hurts. She’d spared his face and punches him in the side, just below the ribs.

"Ow, Arya! What are you doing?" His arms fly to his sides to defend against any further assaults.   
  
"You didn't want to be my family, but you come to make Winterfell your home?” Arya presses her knee down a little harder and Gendry is having trouble finding his newly regained breath. Why can’t Arya just have a conversation like a normal lady?

"It was the closest I could be to you." He sputters out, gripping her thigh and trying to relieve some of the pressure off his chest.

The confession startles her and she removes her knee, opting to kneel beside him instead, watching his face carefully. She doesn’t say anything, so he decides to continue, "I thought you were dead. Being a knight of the brotherhood wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be, in fact once Lady Stoneheart took charge, I left. Being here made me feel like I had a purpose again." 

Gendry sits up, wondering if Arya knows what become of her mother but from her lack of comment, Gendry assumes that she knows and isn’t interested in seeking her out. Instead, she looks at the fire still lit in the small hearth, watching the flames dance for a while, before finally speaking, "I've killed people."

He nods, sitting up.

"I'm good at it."

He doesn't say anything.

"I liked it." 

Gendry stands and offers out a hand to help Arya do the same. He’s surprised when she takes it and doesn’t let go once she’s standing. With his thumb he strokes the inside of her rough calloused hand. Very un-ladylike.

"I've killed,” it’s not much of a confession, she was there when he’d done it, “I'm good at it and I understand what it's like to like it." With the hand that isn’t holding hers, he lifts up her chin so that she’s looking into his eyes. She wants him to see her as a monster so that he'll push her away, but he just sees that little girl who'd survived impossible odds. He loves her. 

Arya licks her lip before asking with a slight tremor in her voice, "Can I sleep here tonight?"

He doesn’t hesitate, "No."

He shouldn't have even brought her into the forge. He should have insisted that she go back into the castle. Gendry fears that he won't be able to control himself if she's beside him in bed. He wants her, wants to fuck his wild girl. He'd cared for her when they'd been on the road and he'd loved her. He'd thought about kissing her but never fucking her. Not like now. 

"Don't be stupid. I wasn't really asking permission. I'm sleeping here tonight." She makes to move around him and head towards his bed, but he reaches out to stop her. Seven hells, his jaw clenches and finds himself taking in how much she’s really grown. He won't last the night. Especially when he recognises that look in her eye. Gendry’s not stupid and neither is Arya. She knows what’s likely to happen if she stays.

"No,” He repeats, gripping her forearm and ready to drag her all the way back up into her room.

"We did it back then,” She reminds him, looking down at the hand gripping her.

Remembering how well that worked out for him last time, Gendry lets her go, "You were a child then."

"So, this about propriety?" She asks, cocking her head to the side with a mischievous glimmer in her eyes.

No, this is about the fact that Arya’s a highborn girl and highborn girls don't get fucked by bastards. Even the bastards of kings. Besides she had a comfortable bed with a fire. Why was she wasting her time with him? 

“You know exactly what this is about. Your brother’s men will kill me. You can stay here a while longer but Arya, you will sleep in your own bed tonight.”   
  
“Fine,” Arya relents, _“tonight_ I will sleep in my own bed.”  
She sheathes the dagger and takes off her boots and takes a seat back up onto the work bench. Gendry leans against the work bench opposite, crossing his arms, and taking in the woman before him.   
  
“What were you doing after you left the brotherhood?” Arya asks, swinging her legs back and forth whilst taking a sip of her ale, her silver eyes glinting in the firelight. Gendry takes some time to take her in. She’s allowed her hair to grow out but only to her shoulders and has it mostly braided away from her face, with parts of it hanging loosely. Gendry wants to take a strand between his fingers, just to see how soft it might be.   
  
“I wandered mostly, from town to town. Whenever it got too cold or I was too poor to move on, I’d do some work, earn my coin. Sometimes I’d work alongside a blacksmith, help in a tavern and other times, other times I’d run through Lannister men and take their coin myself.”  
Arya doesn’t say anything to that, simply takes another drag of her ale. He wonders if he should tell her to slow down but quickly realises that she’d only laugh in his face. Instead he continues, “It took me a while to realise what I was doing, but I was slowly making my way to Winterfell. Finishing the journey, we started all those years ago.” He looks down at his soot covered hands, unable to look at her.   
  
“That’s it? Ten years and you just killed some Lannister’s and fucked some tavern wenches?” Arya scoffs with a raised eyebrow. Her cheeks have gone a little pink from the ale and her nose is red from the cold. Even whilst annoyed, Gendry can’t help but think how beautiful she looks.   
  
“Well what did you do then? How did you spend the last ten years?” Gendry yells, throwing his hands up, “Not a lot of opportunities for adventure when your penniless and a bastard.”  
  
Arya simply shrugs, “I was penniless for most of it too. After I was separated from you, I ran into the hound. The rumours are true, I was there that night, at the Twins. The hound was delivering me to my mother, and I was outside the gates when the slaughter started. I watched them parade my brothers wolfs head on his body, chanting ‘King in the North’. I wanted to fight, to kill them all. The hound dragged me away. Probably saved my life.”   
She’s looking past him, at another time, a place that was blood and terror and the end of her salvation.   
“I travelled with the hound for a while before he got himself killed at a tavern. I took what little money he had and took a boat to Braavos.”  
  
“You’ve been to Braavos?” Gendry quirks an eye at her, making note of how pale her skin is, and is having some trouble picturing her under the hot sun on a dock in Braavos, doing Gods know what. And yet it sounds exactly like something Arya would do, explore the other side of the sea because there was nothing to return home to, not anymore.   
  
Arya picks up a dirty rag beside her and ditches it at Gendry’s head, “Let me finish.”  
Gendry chuckles, taking the rag from where it had fallen on his shoulder, and drops it on the work space next to him, “I’m sorry, it’s not everyday you meet someone who has been to Bravos.” He gestures to Arya with a grandiose sweep of his arm, and slightly bows his head.   
Arya crosses her arms over her chest, looking rather unimpressed with his antics, “I’ve met many people who have been to many places.”   
Gendry scoffs, “I’m sorry we can’t all be rich girls.”  
  
He expects her to laugh or make a joke, but instead her expression becomes more sombre and Gendry is worried for a moment that he may have said something wrong. She isn’t looking at him when she responds, “I was no one when I met them.”  
Gendry is beginning to get rather fed up with the stoic Stark attitude that the entire family has seemed to have inherited from the Lord Stark, “What is that supposed to mean?”  
She looks back at him, annoyed, “If you’d let me finish, you might find out.”   
“Alright, well go on then.” He laughs as he watches her look around for another rag to throw at him. Failing to find one, she makes a rude gesture, only making him laugh harder.   
  
Once he settles, Arya continues, “I trained at the house of black and white. I learnt to serve the many-faced god. When I refused to kill someone, I was hunted down and the same girl that I trained with, was sent to assassinate me. I killed her and got on the first boat to Westeros. I was making my way South to kill Cersei when I learnt that King Jon Snow was in Dragonstone with the Dragon Queen. I made my way to Dragon Stone and followed Jon into war. I’m sure you can figure out the rest for yourself.”   
  
Gendry has a hundred questions bubbling in his chest, ready to burst forth but he knows that Arya will tell him when she’s ready. He knows why she was vague and opts not to ask her anymore, instead he quickly leans forward to snatch the tankard from Arya’s hand but she’s faster and moves it out of reach before he can take it.

“You spilt mine,” He reminds her, reaching for the tankard once again.   
“You shouldn’t have annoyed me,” Arya shoots back before sipping from the tankard. Whilst she’s distracted, Gendry launches himself at her, blocking her from escape by caging her in with his arms braced on the bench on either side of her.   
“Give me the ale Arya,” He growls, practically resting his forehead against hers, the ale between them.   
Arya looks up at him, slowly licks her bottom lip before saying two dangerous words, “Make me.”   
Gendry has a filthy idea, a quick fantasy of pushing her down, ripping those pants off her, kneeling before his lady and drinking his fill of her. The hot look in her eye tells him that Arya wouldn’t be opposed to the idea.   
  
Instead he steps away, grabs the bucket of water he uses to cool his steal and Arya grows wide eyed, seeing his intention, “Gendry no.”   
Grinning, he throws the contents of the bucket at Arya, who barely has any time to duck out of the way and Arya Stark, faceless assassin of the North, squeals.   
She stands, soaking wet, head to toe, glaring at him, “Do you know all the different ways I know how to kill a man?”   
Gendry can’t help himself, “Arya you’ve been giving me a slow death all night.”  
In response to that, Arya begins to strip herself of her clothes.   
  
“Arya-“ Gendry starts but she holds up a hand to stop him.   
“I’m not trying to fuck you, I just need to take off these wet clothes. Hand me your cloak.”  
Gendry does as she commands and turns around to give her privacy.   
“Tell me Lady Stark, how does it feel to be home?” He asks when he can’t hear the wet sounds of her clothes hitting the forge floor.   
When no response comes, Gendry turns around to find Arya gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi *waves*
> 
> Okay so if anyone that read the original version is out there, you may have noticed some big changes. 
> 
> For people who are reading my work for the first time, welcome and please don't hate me
> 
> I'll update again next week.


	3. Blood and Fury

**Lyanna**

Everywhere she looks, there are different colors and sigils from all the seven kingdoms. Tents and pavilions have been erected on the grounds of Harrenhall for the greatest tourney the realm has ever seen. Crowds of Lords and Ladies with their household staff, wander the grounds, as Knights prepare for the tourney. Lyanna sneaks away from the noise and clutter of it all, edging closer and closer to the woods. The women are cooing over the men and hoping for their favors. No Knight has asked for hers and nor will they. She is the She-Wolf of the North, too stubborn and headstrong for any man. Lyanna thinks about how much that has changed, however. Her face is no longer so horse-like. It'll never be soft and delicate like the women of High Garden or as regal as Cersei Lannister, but she is beautiful with high cheekbones, a shapely and well-defined jaw with a slightly pointed chin. Her hair has almost never been cut and falls to her waist in hues of a deep wooden brown, bordering on black. She'll always be thinner and smaller than the others, but she has grown into a woman now. Her hips have developed as well as her breasts. They may not be big but they're not small. She's heard Benjen talk about breasts. He likes them big and hopes to bed a hundred women before his twentieth name day. He’s an idiot.

She gets further away from the tourney grounds, finding herself within the Godswood. Able to take a deep breath, she rests against an old oak, her back pressed against the harsh bark, likely ruining her dress. She tilts up her chin, encouraging the breeze to kiss her face and sweep her hair away from her forehead. Opening her eyes, she watched the light filter through the green leaves, slicing through the darkness of the wood, raining beams of light upon her. Raising her hand, she reached for the beam, trying to catch it between her fingers, wondering what it would be like to hold the very sun in one’s hand. She listened as her gods sang to her.   
  
Her reverie was interrupted by the cruel sounds of jeering and laughter. Jolted from her world, Lyanna moves away from the tree and deeper into the woods, searching for the source of the sounds. Moving quietly, like Ned had taught her when they’d been tracking a doe through the woods, she nears a group of boys. Standing behind some shrubs, she watches from between the branches.

"It's time to run home, kid." One of the boys yells. He’s an ugly-looking fellow in a grey tunic with the sigil of House Frey on his breast. He stands in front of someone that Lyanna cannot see.

"He doesn't have a home. He lives in a swamp," another laughs. This weedy fellow bears the sigil of House Haigh.

"Can't use your spear in a jousting competition so you won't be needing this,” The first one laughs, tearing something away from whomever they’re standing before. She hears something thud and knows that they’ve tossed the person to the ground and have begun kicking him and poking him with the spear that had been taken from him.   
  
Having seen enough, she comes around the bushes to find three boys taunting another boy that looks like he'd be Ned's age. One of the Squires snaps a spear over his knee as another one holds the struggling boy back. Lyanna recognizes the boy as a crannogman. More specifically, his father's vassal, Howland Reed.  
  
"I think that's quite enough," Lyanna barks, stepping out from the shadows of the tree. The squires turn and behold the lady in green. Howland’s expression is torn between grief and gratitude. Lyanna can imagine that no matter how much he doesn't want to be beaten to a pulp; no man wants to be rescued by a girl.

"Now miss, we're just having a little fun. No harm innit." The squire holding both ends of the spear speaks up. The blatant lie makes her angry.

"The fun can continue in the tourney in the competition. Unless you're all afraid to face him when it's not three to one?" She tosses her hair back over her shoulder, crossing her arms in front, she’d seen her mother do that when reprimanding castle staff, only her mother's hair was usually plaited back or in a stylish updo. Lyanna had run away from her septa this morning when she’d tried to start pinning her hair.

The one that’s holding Howland lets go of him, only to begin swaggering up to Lyanna with a smirk on his face, “You his lady? Do you open up those pretty little legs for him and let him plow you? I could give you a good plowing.”   
The other two boys laugh at this, leering at her as their friend grabs her. Lynna lets it happen, lets him pull her forward and whilst they’re all distracted by their own greatness, Lyanna swings back her fist and collides it with the jaw of the one grabbing her.   
  
He stumbles back in shock, tripping over his own feet, the other two looking at her in shock before advancing.   
  
Lyanna holds up her hands, if you lay a hand on me, my father will have your heads,” she threatens, bemoaning the dagger that Robert had given her which lay by her pillow, in her bedroom. She noticed a tourney sword lying on the ground. The boys must have been practicing before they turned Howland into a live training dummy. She held out the weapon in front of her, taking on the stance that Benjen had taught her, “and if he won’t, I will.”   
  
The boys roared with laughter, one wiping tears away from his eyes.   
The one who still holds the spear asks, “Do you know who I am? Do you know which house I serve? I serve House Frey, one of the greatest houses of the North. Who do you serve?” He spits, grinning. Behind, Howland wheezes out a little chuckle that they all ignore.   
  
“No one,” Lyanna admits, slightly lowering her sword.   
  
The squires laugh again, and Lyanna takes pleasure in their glee and how soon it will be wiped from their faces.   
  
The Frey Squire jeers, “See, you’re no one and the only use you serve is to warm my cock with your pretty Northern cunt.”   
  
At that, Lyanna smiles, twirling the sword in one hand with ease. Brandon had shown her that trick, told her it was an easy way to intimidate an opponent, make it look like you know what you’re doing. The boys start to look nervous.   
  
“Now that you have so kindly told me who I am, allow me to extend you the same courtesy,” she stops twirling and points the sword at House Haigh squire, “You serve a sad little house with what I must imagine in the most pathetic sigil I’d ever seen.” With that said, she clouts him over the head with the sword. He stumbles, yelling out in pain. She turns to the squire with the porcupine sigil who is advancing towards her, buts the end of the sword into her stomach and watching him double over in pain says, “I heard Lord Blount shit himself on the way here. Is that true? Is that what serving means? Cleaning a lords shit-stained breeches?”  
Without looking away, she aims her sword at the chest of the third squire who had been about to make his move.   
“House Frey, a pathetic house whose only value is a bridge, maybe I ought to make a bridge out of you,” she finally looks at his furious face.   
  
“Who do you think you are?” He spits.   
  
Lyanna grins a wolfish grin before whacking him with the sword several times until he falls.   
  
From his place on the ground, Howland spits up some blood before laughing out, “She’s Lyanna Stark of Winterfell, you stupid cunt.”

All three boys look up at her in horror.   
  
“And you threatened to rape her,” Howland reminds them, getting up onto his feet. Accepting her arm, Howland is escorted away limping with Lyanna by his side.   
  
  


In her family’s tent, she has him sit down on a bed before moving around like a whirlwind, gathering the necessary materials to patch him up.   
“I’m fine, really,” he protests weakly, holding his and groaning in pain.   
With a bowl of hot water and some cloth, Lyanna starts cleaning his wounds. She doesn’t say anything. With each wound she cleans, the angrier she gets.   
  
Taking a deep breath she looks at him, "How are you feeling?"

They seemed to have gotten a few good hits to face, there’s an awful bruise forming under his eye and his mouth hasn’t stopped bleeding.   
He nods, looking shamefully down at the ground.  
  
"Lyanna," Ned calls, looking for her.

"In here," she calls back wiping at Howland’s mouth and pulling back quickly when he winces in pain.

Brandon, Ned and Benjen step into the tent, quickly taking in the scene.

"Howland?" Brandon recognizes his father's vassal and wonders what he's doing in their tent with his sister.

"Some squires were being nasty to him. I stopped it,” Lyanna explains, seeing where his brothers mind was wandering, despite that Howland is in condition to threaten her maidenhood.

"You shouldn't have. I now look like a fool," Howland mutters, looking down at the ground, his face red with shame.

Brandon looks as if though he's about to say something, tell Howland that he should be grateful, however Ned intervenes.  
"Then you should enter the tourney and defeat the squires that wronged you, so that you will no longer look like a fool."   
  
Lyanna couldn't be prouder of her brother in that moment. She takes Howland’s hand, “It was three to one Howland, you wouldn’t have stood a chance. It wasn’t a fair fight.”  
Suddenly remembering the manners that her mother keeps trying to instill in her, Lyanna gestures to her brothers, “Howland, may I introduce you to my brothers, “Brandon Stark the Wild Wolf, Eddard Stark the Quiet Wolf,” she giggles and Eddard gives her a stern look whilst Brandon beams, puffing out his chest but she can see the joy glistening in Ned’s eye, “and Benjen Stark, the pup of the North.”   
  
“Hey!” Benjen calls out, outraged whilst his brothers burst out in laughter. Smiling, Lyanna turns back to a still dejected-looking Howland.   
She suggests that he come with them to the feast.   
“I couldn’t, I don’t belong there.”  
“Nonsense,” Lyanna interrupts, “You’re highborn and have every right to be there with the rest of them.”  
“And as the future Warden of the North, I command it.” Brandon adds.   
From the corner of her eye, Lyanna can see Ned rolling his eyes. He doesn’t envy his brothers burden.

**Rhaegar**

He needed some time to think, to be away from his father’s watchful and suspicious eye. The old man is on to him. He cannot slip, cannot afford to lose now. He paid a fortune to ensure this tourney would happen. A perfect way to meet most of the lords of the land and to discuss with them his plans. His father is unfit to rule, he's a danger even to himself. The entire realm can see that now. The Harrenhall Godswood is small, yet larger than the one in Kingslanding. The Old Gods be damned, they have no place in the seven kingdoms’ not anymore. Nobody comes out here to pray anymore which is why it’s the perfect place to meet the lords and ladies of Westeros.   
  
"Who do you think you are?" A voice pierces through the air, raging against an unknown entity. Rhaegar quietly creeps through the wood to find a girl, holding a tourney sword before a group of boys. The girl is beautiful and in a bright evergreen dress with her hair flowing down her back, she reminds him of the children of the forest. She looks wild and untamed. He notices two squires on the ground, one bleeding from the mouth another doubled over in pain and a boy laughing at them from the ground beside them, “She’s Lyanna Stark of Winterfell, you stupid cunt."   
Something else is said but Rhaegar doesn’t hear it before the boy that had spoken rises and is escorted away by the girl.   
  
As he watches her walk away he utters her name like a prayer on his lips, “Lyanna Stark.”

**Ned**

Ned had never been at a feast such as this, with so many different lords and their vassals, gathered under one roof to eat and drink together. At the top of the tent, on a grand table he can see Oberyn Martell the Red Viper, beside his sister Elia. She was beautiful with long dark hair and sparkling eyes. Laughing she turned to say something to her husband but he was deep in thought, not paying her much attention. Ned had heard a lot about Prince Rhaegar but nothing compared to really seeing the man. He was as formidable as promised but when Elia succeeded in bringing him back from wherever his thoughts had taken him, he smiled, becoming a completely different man. Charming the table and the people around him. Ned noticed that he did not touch his wife and his gaze would rarely drift over to their direction, resting on Lyanna. 

Ned turns his head to see Lyanna and Howland laughing together as more food is brought out for the third course. Ned has to admit that he enjoys the boys company. He has a surprising wit about him that Ned wouldn’t have otherwise suspected. It was probably that wit that got him into trouble with the squires.   
Lyanna suddenly turns to Ned and subtly points at some squires serving at a different table, “That’s them, see the one with the bruised nose? I did that,” She beams.

Ned knows that he should disapprove but he can’t bring himself to do it. She’d saved their fathers vassal and taught his bullies a lesson. However, the look in her eye tells him that it wasn’t enough. Lyanna wants to see them properly pay.

There’s a ruckus beside them. Robert has engaged in a drinking contest with Ser Richard Lonmouth and appears to be winning. He drunkenly jeers, laughing with the men beside him. He winks at Lyanna who shoots him a disapproving look. Robert freezes, placing his tankard down, ready to concede defeat when Lyanna’s frown breaks out in a grin and she laughs. Robert smiles, picking back the tankard, lifting it towards her in a salute, before downing the rest of its contents.   
  
After everyone had eaten their full, people begin to yell out requests at their Prince, begging him to sing for them. Humbly, Prince Rhaegar rises from his table and a squire brings him his silver harp. The tent becomes silent as everyone waits with bated breath. Rhaegar begins to strum along the strings beginning a beautiful yet haunting tune. Most of the maidens in the room let out a collective sigh when Rhaegar begins to sing. It’s a sad song about love lost and when its over, the crowd bursts into applause, cheering on their prince.   
  
“It’s alright, Lyanna, it’s just a song,” Brandon teases and Ned turns to see his sister wiping away the tears that she had been weeping openly.   
“To seven hells with you,” she curses, before grabbing a goblet of wine and dumping it over he brothers head.   
“Lyanna,” Her mother gasps in outrage and Ned has trouble containing his laughter.

**Rhaegar  
  
**

The next day there was a mystery that no one could really figure out. A knight had appeared wearing mismatched and ill-fitted armor, a smiling Weirwood painted on his shield and defeated three knights in the melee. His father was furious, demanding that he be beaten and forced to reveal himself. But the next day, the mysterious knight of the laughing tree, the one who had defeated the knights of House Frey, Blount, and Haigh and demanded that they teach their squires honor, had disappeared. His father raged, suspecting that it was one of his enemies, set out to kill him. Rhaegar believed otherwise.

**Lyanna**

Lyanna is bored. Men are riding at each other with a lance aimed at the other and she is bored. Robert is having a good time, yelling and laughing along with her brothers. She's trying not to look at him. She cannot believe what nearly transpired a couple of nights ago. They’d snuck down into Winter Town together and spent most of the time drinking, Robert had to bribe the tavern owner so that he wouldn’t tell Lord Rickard where his daughter had been. As they’d stumbled through Winterfell, Robert escorting Lyanna back to her chambers, they’d quickly found themselves in an embrace. She hadn't been in the right state of mind when she'd given in to her desires for him and let him in her room. Gods she wanted the night to continue and for Robert to take her Maidenhead and be done with it. He's to be her husband, what does it matter whether she's deflowered now or later. Robert will want her all the same. She wasn’t getting out of the marriage and Robert wasn’t boorish or dull, she could try to be happy. It was Robert who had stopped them, mumbling something about it not being right, that she wasn’t a tavern wench. He left her and stumbled to his own chambers alone.

Ever since that night, he's been showering her with trinkets, pellets he'd hunted, flowers and a bracelet he carved out of the bone of a stag’s horn. All beautiful gifts, he even had a wrist guard made for her so that she may practice her archery. He's been kind, doing his best to get to know her and slowly she can feel herself liking her betrothed more and more. He is Ned's best friend and she trusts her brother’s judgement. Robert looks at her from above the crowd of faces, giving her a heart-wrenching smile. What she wouldn't do to be alone in that room with him again. It’s the thought of marriage that has an icy fist clenching around her heart.   
  
The final tilt is announced. After five days of this, Lyanna is quite ready for it to be over. Ser Barristen Selmy, the greatest knight in all the realm, against Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. The crowd bustles with excitement as the girls twitter on about who will be named the Queen of Love and Beauty. Lyanna rolls her eyes. Ashara if Barristen wins and Elia if the Prince wins. It doesn't take a maester to figure that out.

In white armor with a white cloak attached, Ser Barristen Selmy rides out, causing the crowd to roar. Soon in colors of red and black, Prince Rhaegar appears before them, a three-headed dragon emblazoned upon the chest of his armor. The two men align at their starting positions, waiting for the Mad King to start the tilt.

"Seven hells. End this." He screeches, thus beginning the end to the tourney.  
  
The two men charge at one another, lances perfectly aligned. They both manage to hit each other but neither are unhorsed. They ride again, this time Rhaegar strikes harder, lifting Ser Barristen off his horse. The crowd is silent in its disbelief as they watch the Great Barristen the Bold, fly through the air and land on his ass. Rhaegar removes his helm and that crowd cheers as he has won the tourney. His silver hair flows down, past his shoulders, ending under the shoulder blades. He has it tied back in a loose braid. The girls sigh and declare how handsome he is.

"No one expected him to win," Lyanna murmurs, turning to Ned, keeping an eye on the prince as she speaks. Ever since the feast, Lyanna has found it difficult to not look at him. He was handsome, undeniably so, but there was something in his eyes, something that spoke to Lyanna. She didn’t quite understand it but it felt like destiny.

"Not at first but he had done well throughout the rest of the joust,” Ned nods, clapping along with the rest of the crowd as they cheered on their prince. Lyanna wondered what Ned thought of him.

Suddenly everything goes quiet. Rhaegar has a crown of blue winter roses around the tip of his lance. He has ridden past his wife Elia. She smiles, waiting for him to do a lap of the joust grounds before returning to her. Everyone smiles good-humouredly as they watch the sun glint of the rubies in the Prince’s armor. Their smiles fade when he stops before Lyanna, planting the roses on her lap, his violet eyes looking into her grey ones, and Lyanna feels her heart beating faster and blood rushing to her cheeks. What is he doing? Lyanna looks down at the crown, too shocked to know what to do. She can almost feel the Princess glaring at her.

"Thank you, your grace,” she whispers, unsure how to behave when the heir to the Iron Throne presents you with a crown of roses, wishing that she could tear his wife’s favor off his lance.

Rhaegar nods solemnly before cantering off. All eyes are on her, watching to see what she will do, whilst she simply looks down at the crown in her lap, trying to ignore the staring.

"Bahahahaha," Robert bursts out into laughter, ending the silence as everyone begins to mutter and whisper all around.  
"Smart man knows how special my Lyanna is," He chortles.  
She’s the only one to notice the anger in his voice and the fury burning in his eyes. He’d spoken to save her the pain and humiliation of having to explain herself.   
However, the words bother her. She isn't anyone's.   
  


**Rhaegar**

Sitting upon the bed within their tent, Elia glares at him through her almond-shaped eyes. "You humiliated me," she spits, the rage of Dorne within her irises.  
  
"You're Princess of Westeros Elia, what does it matter if Lyanna Stark is named the Queen of Love and Beauty?" Rhaegar sighs, running a hand through his hair.   
  
Elia scoffs, throwing her arms up and getting off the bed, before sitting back down, a fainting spell coming over her. She still hasn’t recovered from giving birth to their son and if the Maester is to be believed, never will. Despite her seated position, Elia can still fling barbs at him, "Because of your behavior, the entire realm will think our marriage is falling apart."   
  
"Isn't it?" He quietly asks, looking into her deep brown eyes. Elia doesn't gasp and neither do tears build up in her eyes.   
She only glares, "Get out and don't come back until you've become a smarter man."

Not wanting to aggravate his angry wife anymore or wake Aegon, Rhaegar reluctantly leaves their tent. He didn't want to make Elia angry or humiliate her but over the last seven days, he'd been watching the Stark girl. He can't imagine trying to ignore his feelings for her. She is beautiful, smart and knows her way around a bow and arrow. Elia is so frail, has always been, but the burden of carrying his children was a heavy one and Elia paid a hefty price. She will no longer be able to bear him any more heirs. That fight was the first spark their marriage had had in months, maybe even years. The first time in so long that he got to see the woman he married.

The feast is still going strong, he can hear the jeers and hoots of laughter coming from the grand pavilion that had been erected for this occasion. Rhaegar had retired early, not standing the looks men were giving him and the way Lord Robert Baratheon slobbered over his betrothed. A wolf-like that eats stags, it does not lay with them. She seems entranced by him as well. The way they look at each other - she's clearly in love with him or at least feels an attraction towards him. They spent most of the feast leaning into one another, whispering and laughing at things they had to say. Rhaegar almost broke his goblet when he saw Robert slide a hand along Lyanna's thigh. Has he touched her there before or was it the wine that made him so bold?

As if his thoughts could conjure whatever is upon his mind, he sees Lyanna walking away from the pavilion, unescorted. Grasping his chance, Rhaegar quickly catches her.  
Just a stride away from her, he asks, "Where are you going at this time of night?"   
Lyanna doesn't jump, she simply looks over her shoulder but as realization dawns upon her, she stops mid-step to turn and bow to her Prince.

"Your Grace,” she sighs, looking up at him from under her lashes. A blush stains her pale cheeks, Rhaegar suspects it’s not from the cold of the night air.

"Please, none of that bowing nonsense. You are a queen after all," He smiles, giving her a small bow in return. She shoots him a look that he's sure would have pierced him harder than a lance if it could but chuckles none the less.

"Would you like to go for a ride with me?" Rhaegar asks he's observed over the last few days that she's fond of riding. Lyanna doesn't say anything, only peers at the Prince as if he were something exotic. Her eyes roam his face, drifting to his shoulders and chest, he can’t help but stand a little taller.

"Your Grace, I am betrothed to Lord Robert Baratheon of Storms End," she informs him, taking a small step back.   
Rhaegar’s heart leaps into his throat, he doesn’t want her to leave.   
“I wouldn’t want to do anything to upset Lord Baratheon. I simply wanted to see if you’re alright. You looked upset at the joust. I’m sorry if my gift caused you any trouble.” He takes a tentative step towards her, careful not to scare her any further away.   
  
Lyanna shakes her head, “No trouble was caused. I’m sorry, I have forgotten myself. Thank you for your gift though I don’t think I’m worthy,” She whispers, looking down at the ground.   
  
Rhaegar shakes his head in disbelief, “Lyanna, a girl like you is worth the sun and stars, if only I could bring them to you.”   
She blushes a darker shade of red and refuses to look up.   
Instead she tells the ground, “I should go back to my tent, goodnight my prince.”  
She turns away and walks in the direction of what he must suspect, is her tent.

"Lyanna, wait." He calls out, desperate to keep her by his side.   
  
She pauses.

"I just need a good riding partner and from what I've heard, you know the lands of the North better then anyone."

**Lyanna **

She doesn't know how she managed to end up in the middle of the forest with the heir to the iron throne but somehow, she has. Worse, they've been gone for hours and people could be looking for them, but she doesn't care. They found a small place by a Brooke to rest their horses and have been there for what seems like years. They’ve discussed everything from literature to the history of the seven kingdoms. Now Lyanna lays in the grass, bundled up in furs, listening to Rhaegar play his harp whilst singing an enchanting song. Indeed, Rhaegar has a lovely and melodic voice. She can hardly believe that someone like him wants her attention. He’s smart and charming, if not a little shy. Lyanna wants to coax more from him, see who he really his, discover the man behind the legend.

The song comes to an end and Rhaegar looks upon her as if she were a ruby amongst rocks.  
“Lyanna Stark, you are unlike anyone I have ever met,” He sighs, watching the way the moonlight makes her pale skin glow in the night, the way her wolfish brown eyes watch him in the dark, like prey.   
Lyanna blushes, ducking beneath her hair.   
“No,” he protests, leaning forward, “don’t do that, don’t hide your face.”  
He brushes the strands away from her face, tucking them behind her ear, his thumb gently stroking her fair cheek. She doesn’t protest, leaning into it.   
"May I kiss you?" 

Lyanna leans away as the words spring forth from her mouth, "No."  
Whatever spell she’d been under, he’d broken it with his request. She shuffled away from him, creating space between them. Rhaegar looked crestfallen and she wanted nothing more than to fall into his arms and assure him that she felt it two, whatever it was between them.

"My apologies, I shouldn't have asked," Rhaegar amends but the damage is done. She looks away to the forest on the other side of the river, watching the breeze bend the branches and shift the tides of the river. Rising to her knees she says, "I should get going." 

He nods, getting up from the floor, "Let me escort you back."

"That won't be necessary, your grace,” she snaps, closing her eyes shut, immediately regretting it. She isn’t angry with him, she’s angry with herself, a stupid girl pining for something that she cannot have. Turning away, she unties her horse and mounts with grace. She doesn’t look back at him as she urges her horse to go before, she changes her mind. Without looking over her shoulder, she rides off. 

Robert is outside her pavilion when she gets back.   
"Thank the gods. I thought something had happened to you." Rising from the ground, he helps her dismount and wraps her in a tight embrace. 

"Robert, I'm all right,” She looks up at him, placing a hand on his cheek, rough with beard growth, and strokes his face with the back of her hand. He closes his eyes, leaning into her caress.

Placing a gentle kiss on her forehead, he strokes her back, "When I couldn't find you, I panicked." 

Placing a hand on his chest, she reassures him, "I'm right here, I'm safe."  
  
That night, she dreams of dragons.

*****

Lyanna thought she'd take a walk around Harrenhall before they left back home for Winterfell. The grounds aren't pretty or have any greenery, however, if you get far enough from the castle and squint, you can imagine what it used to look like.   
"I keep catching you in the woods."  
Lyanna says nothing, not bothering to turn.   
"Doesn't a prince have better things to do?"  
"Prince's are supposed to pursue beautiful maidens," he's right behind her with his hand on her waist and breath on her neck. It sends pleasant chills down her spine.  
"Married prince's don't pursue betrothed maidens." She's trying to act as if though she's not leaning into him, relishing in the feeling of his body against hers. There’s something drawing her towards him, calling her to him. She knows that she should stay away but whenever her guard falls just a little, he’s there in the back of her mind. He’s in her dreams now and he doesn’t seem to be going away.   
  
"He's going to take you away to his castle and lock you away in one of his towers,” he warns her, his hand drifting down to her hip, his other hand strokes her neck, following the downward path to her shoulder. Lyanna shivers, arching her neck just a little, to give him better access.   
Lyanna shakes her head to clear it as much as to disagree, "He respects who I am."  
Rhaegar laughs, "Has he told you he'll let you hunt on his grounds? Will, he let you be as wild and free as you desire?"  
It's on the tip of her tongue to tell him all that Robert has done for her but she can't get the words out.  
"He'll keep you trapped within the Stormlands. At my side, I will take you to the Reach, to the iron islands and to Dorne. We will travel the Seven Kingdoms and then explore Essos. Would you like that Lyanna? To see the known world?" He drops a kiss down where her neck meets her shoulder.   
Longing for all that he promises tugs at Lyanna's heart. Maybe she can go away with the prince for a year or two... Even as she thinks it, she knows that it'll never work. She turns to tell the prince so, and that was her mistake.   
  
Rhaegar leans forward, planting a soft, chase kiss upon her lips. He pulls back, and Lyanna lets out a frustrated cry, it had been a taste of paradise and she needed more. Her cry gives him the confidence he needs to kiss her again, his lips insistent upon her, demanding she opens her lips. She obliges, feeling a tightening within as his tongue slips into her mouth. He moans out his satisfaction, entangling his fingers in her hair. Lyanna grips the prince closer to her as she kisses him deeply, exploring his mouth and mewling as he bites her lip, sending a jolt of pleasure down to her core. His hands gently tug at her hair, exposing her neck to him. He plants gentle kisses along it, biting down on her collarbone.   
"Rhaegar," she gasps.   
"What have you done to me," he mutters against her skin, "in a matter of hours you have bewitched me completely."  
  
“Rhaegar please,” Lyanna moans, as he licks her neck. Fingers begin to untie laces as Lyanna pushes his doublet from his shoulders and undoes the laces of her dress.   
She shakes her head, “No time.” Her brothers would come looking for her soon and she’s not even sure how to help a prince dress, they don’t have time to remove clothing.   
He growls against her lips, “Lyanna, I need you.”  
She nods, directing his hands to her skirts, helping him lift them, “Make me your.”  
Letting loose another growl, Rhaegar lifts her so that she can wrap her legs around his waist, unlacing his breeches, he takes out his cock and hovers her over him. He looks into her eyes as he slowly sheathes himself into her, groaning as he feels her tight wetness around him.   
  
Overcome, he turns them around and slams her against the nearby tree. She cries out in pain and ecstasy and soon he’s rutting against her like an unpractised boy, needing to be close to her, to feel her as his.   
He finishes inside her, holding her close to him as she trembles around him.   
  
“Stay with me,” he begs, caressing her thigh.   
"Yes," Lyanna agrees, having lost all sense. 

Rhaegar growls against her skin, "What about the Baratheon?"  
"At this moment, I am with you."   
He grips her tightly in his embrace and against her lips he murmurs, "I am never letting you go."


End file.
